Trap
by VickyVicarious
Summary: Dustfinger fell for it so easily. Eighth in Four Letter Words. Dasta.


Dustfinger fell for it too easily. Even _he_ knew it, and he wasn't sure if he really had let himself slip that much or if he had forgotten why he'd ever bothered in the first place.

He hadn't paid attention. He had focused only on Orpheus and the thoughts in his own head. He had gotten too caught up in his own dreams and hopes and memories to remember reality, and when he had resurfaced, he found himself victim of too simple a trap and Basta's feral grin.

It was because of Gwin. Despite _everything_, even though he had a sure solution and he was going home no doubt about it, Dustfinger still was mistrustful. Enough that he still had to cling to what he did have here, which he had thought was nothing and which was apparently still Gwin somehow.

He had scrabbled in the open window and pounced on Dustfinger and bit the webbing between his thumb and forefinger hard enough to bleed and Dustfinger had _rejoiced_.

He was dimly aware, yes, of a few things. He should have been _more_ aware though, should have focused enough to think and put all his suspicions and intuitions and instincts together and escape right away – but here was _Gwin_, miraculously returned from the dead and Dustfinger had never thought he loved the little monster like this.

Orpheus's eyes had glinted and sharpened in, focused on something behind Dustfinger's back, and then _he_ had stepped forward. There was a quiet noise and a dark shadow and then Gwin was ripped away. He brought a bit of Dustfinger's skin with him, and hissed and spat as he was yanked into a cage. Orpheus just grinned, crooned from just far enough away that vicious claws didn't reach his ecstatic face.

And Dustfinger was on his knees, and the shadow covered him completely before he could process anything. And then it all fell into place and his head was ripped back by the hair, bending his whole body back, spine curving painfully, a strong arm wrapped around his throat and a familiar knife held against his jugular. Basta's knees slid down on either side of Dustfinger's, until he too was kneeling, and grinning and surrounding Dustfinger. He'd even gone to the trouble of forcing Dustfinger's arms back, held in place by Basta's chest.

Despite being upside down, Basta's grin was wide and wide and unmistakable, and something worse than fear crawled on lizard legs up into Dustfinger's throat.

He didn't get the chance to say anything. Basta didn't either, not to him. He just looked up and smirked, said, "Hand it over."

Orpheus looked frustrated, extremely so, but Basta met his eyes and pressed the tip of his knife further into Dustfinger's jugular. Tension unraveled between the two, and Dustfinger breathed slow, hoping Basta would win because he at least had a chance of saving himself then.

The Silvertongue's jaw clenched in the corner of Dustfinger's vision; he looked like he was going to say something, to protest, but Basta grinned _that grin_, pearl-white, and tightened around Dustfinger lithely, ready for some sort of fight – how, Dustfinger didn't know, this was all out of his depth – and Orpheus relented with a snarl, kicking the cage forward.

Basta snagged it with a finger, pulled it close and Gwin crowded eagerly against the bars, closer to Dustfinger, all three of them wrapped up together like one being, and Dustfinger's breath left him in a tiny, "_haa_".

Basta reacted: his arm jerked slightly against Dustfinger's skin; tightened, drew him closer, tighter. "Now," he told Orpheus, still not looking at Dustfinger, but aware of him in every inch of touching skin, Dustfinger knew. "Now, read."

Orpheus stared at the tableau in front of him for a long, dull moment – then his expression glimmered with cunning and he slowly set down the book. "No," he said nastily. "I don't think I will."

Dustfinger could _feel_ Basta tensing. For a second they really _were_ unified, thinking _no why not now so close no_ until the moment was over and people were pouring into the room.

Basta jerked upright smoothly, retaining his vice-grip round Dustfinger's neck and nothing else; arms free, Dustfinger scrabbled for Gwin, leaned his weight back and down into Basta enough to breathe against the arm and blade-edge, and realized something.

This trap had shifted, he knew suddenly, this had not been planned and Dustfinger was not the only one betrayed by Orpheus tonight. Basta was surprised too, and likely cursing himself for not noticing these men before just as Dustfinger was. Basta was also at a disadvantage – these were not his friends, they wanted him dead too. Basta was holding him loosely but for the knife at his throat, all attention on the men before them and Orpheus.

Basta was his ally. Basta was no longer threatening him – Dustfinger could slip free, should he really try – but threatening _Orpheus_ now, with the only thing he could: Dustfinger's death.

And just as suddenly, Dustfinger realized Basta would not kill him. This was a bluff and nothing more, but a bluff that both their lives depended upon.

"What are you doing?" Basta asked Orpheus. "What do you think you're doing?"

Orpheus rubbed his hands together. "You're not the only one who made me an offer, you know," and like it was a cue, someone rounded the corner into the room.

Someone, someone dark like a crow, hunched and sharp-eyed and terrifying in the way she smelt of death, of poison and pain. Someone little and old and evil and angry and grinning wide, enjoying the theatrics, and she spoke.

"Basta," said the Magpie, voice triumphant and gloating, "it seems we've finally caught you."

She ignored Dustfinger completely in favor of the knife-wielder, and something deep in Dustfinger's gut twisted – he remembered a dark valley, remembered taunting laughter and Gwin and his assumption, so _blatant_, and Basta in the hut. Bloodied. The body.

_They saw it_, he thought, _they saw it and brought it back to her and now she knows and she's using it against him, using __**me**__._

Basta didn't get it yet, but he would, soon, and he would be _furious_, enraged and frustrated, and Dustfinger felt the knife prick back further against his neck, wanted to scream how useless it was. She didn't care if Dustfinger died; they were doomed.

"Magpie," Basta sneered in a voice tinted with disgust. "What are you doing here?"

"You're not the only one hunting down old acquaintances, Basta," the Magpie hissed with a sharp glance at Dustfinger. Basta misinterpreted it, of course, thought what Dustfinger would have thought only minutes ago, and tightened his grip even further, the knife a harsh line of death along Dustfinger's throat.

"I'll kill him," he warned. "You like to do the job yourself, don't you, Magpie? I'll kill him and you won't get to touch him."

And the moment came, her eyes gleamed, and Dustfinger flinched, pressed back hard against Basta, tried to communicate with his head in the other's shoulder and no words, tried anything, failed, she laughed – "Go right ahead, Basta," she said. "I really don't care about him. You, though – you, I want to kill myself, in my home with my most favorite poisons."

Both Basta and Dustfinger knew what that meant, and Dustfinger _felt_ Basta's surprise, felt the exact moment he realized that _he_ had been the hunted one, that Dustfinger's brush with death was nothing more than coincidence and cruelty, that he was trapped and had no escape at all and they were both going to _die here_. Dustfinger couldn't move anymore, couldn't breathe and felt himself shaking.

He hoped Basta made good on his threat. He'd rather Basta killed him than Mortola, rather die by knife than potion and with Basta's sharp white grin hovering over him, his revenge realized, would rather Basta be the last one he saw, voice purring a self-satisfied goodbye.

Grinning down at him. Eyes, calculating and elated, wicked and dark, and meeting Dustfinger's own. Widening for a second before turning away, up, sharp grin, and the knife tightened further on his throat, enough to hurt, to cut open again what had only recently closed up.

Blood spilled onto the knife's surface, Basta grinned wide and bright and white, and Dustfinger relaxed back into his arm for the end.

* * *

I'm mean, ending with a cliffhanger when I update so infrequently. Sorry about that! But at least some things are coming to a head now, yes?


End file.
